


like real people do

by sinningpumpkin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23131903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinningpumpkin/pseuds/sinningpumpkin
Summary: Jon fills him. His voice in his ears and the smell of his skin in his nose, every nerve tingling and focused on his hands moving through his hair. Jon flushes him out, worming into his cracks and filling the hollow spots he’s never been able to satiate.~Jon and Martin are figuring it out.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 4
Kudos: 264





	like real people do

Martin doesn’t know how it starts. Any of it. Somehow they go from begrudging time together to searching it out in earnest. Awkward offers of tea and food turn to quiet visits in between statements. Flinching away when their shoulders touch into fingers interlocked while Jon writes his notes. Martin had first tried to work beside him, before quickly realizing he’d get little done sitting beside his Archivist. He watches Jon instead, finishing his work at his own desk before joining him. He’ll sit further away if he needs to read a statement, or within arms reach as he catalogs artifacts and thumbs through Leitner titles. Usually, they’re silent, or Martin babbles about his day, staring at the ceiling or watching the subtle flickers of Jon’s face as he listens.

Sometimes they leave together. Sometimes they go home together. Martin’s flat is accumulating more and more dust while Jon’s slowly fills with more of Martin’s dirty laundry. Martin doesn’t know how it starts and he doesn’t really know where they’re going either. He tries not to think too much about it, for that breeds more fear for the end of the world. And what might come after.

This night is much the same, the Archives quiet as Martin pushes away from his desk and goes to Jon's office. From the hallway, he can’t hear the Archivist’s voice, but he knocks anyway, lest he interrupt a statement. After a moment, Jon calls to him. “Come in, Martin.” His voice is fond and it settles over Martin with such comfort he’s almost dizzy with it. He shoves the creaky door open and wedges himself into the office. Between stacks of suspicious books and cardboard boxes of statements, there’s barely enough room to open the door. Martin kicks it closed and clambers over the creaky floor, watching his footing instead of Jon.

It comes as a surprise when Jon reaches for him, a hand landing on his hip as a warm weight, stemming his rushing thoughts from the day. Jon’s squinting up at him and Martin feels like a pesky puzzle with pieces that don’t quite fit together. He’s used to the feeling, maybe even a bit fond of it. He bends at his waist to kiss Jon chastely, moving slow and feeling gratified when Jon doesn’t elegantly dodge out of the way. “Hard day?” Jon’s thumb is stroking over his hip, hooking up under the hem of his shirt to touch his bare skin.

Martin hums, shrugs and then nods. Their foreheads are pressed together and Jon’s skin smells like dusty books. Martin rests his hands on the edge of his desk, steadying himself as he leans close enough to bury his face in the side of Jon’s neck. He breathes more of him in, the stress and fear and indignant confusion momentarily fleeing. “Yeah,” his lips move against Jon’s sweater, wool scratching his chin. “Don’t wanna talk about it.” It’s a quiet invitation for Jon to  _ know _ on his own, and Jon’s hand shifts from his hip to stroke down Martin’s spine.

“I’m sorry.” Where the apology once would have been patronizing, the earnestness makes Martin ache into his core. He doesn’t know if Jon really knows what he read about today, the statements he flicked through and the tugging need in the back of his brain to speak them aloud. He doesn’t know if Jon can hear the way he sobbed at his desk earlier, suddenly reminded of everything on their shoulders, fear acute and inescapable for a few tense moments. But it doesn’t really matter, Jon’s here, a hand on Martin’s spine and lips at his temple as he breathes in his scent.

If Martin could, he would live in these moments. They both would, he knows. The quiet devotion between them enough to wash away all other compulsions. Martin mouths at Jon’s wooly sweater and savors the safety as Jon reaches for something. “Want a drink?”

Martin snorts and doesn’t move from his spot folded half into Jon. “I didn’t think you’d leave the Archives before midnight anymore.” 

He can practically feel Jon roll his eyes as he hears a glass bottle thunk onto his desk. Martin twists his head just enough to see the large bottle of whiskey, already half drained. He pins Jon with a skeptical look that he just smirks at. “As you said, I don’t leave the Archives much.” His lips curl into something a little more sour by the end of his sentence and Martin’s fingers lace into the soft hair at the base of his skull as he grabs the bottle. 

It’s cheap and it’ll burn a hell of a lot on the way down. Probably coming back up too. Martin grins at the thought, as loose and uncaring as he’s been since he started this job. He scratches at Jon’s scalp for a second, before leaning back and gulping down a mouthful of acidic liquor. His tongue goes numb and he giggles, head still lolled back as he feels the whiskey settle in his belly. “How much longer?”

He rolls his head forward to look at Jon as he asks. The sour look is gone from his face, a vague smile on his lips as he glances back to his work. “An hour,” Martin groans exaggeratedly and swigs some more of Jon’s whiskey. “At the most.” He’s happier with that assessment and picks his way across the office to collapse onto Jon’s creaky cot.

He props his head on his hand and tries not to spill liquor all over himself as he works himself to drunkeness. On the third swallow, a buzz settles heavy over his eyes and he smiles, rubbing his mouth clean with the back of his hand. He keeps his fingers clasped over the neck of the bottle, even as he’s fairly sure he won’t be drinking more. He’s already lost the cap and spilling in the Archivist’s office isn’t a great idea. “I’ll be here if you need me,” he says around a laugh, rolling onto his side to continue watching Jon as he works.

Time moves nebulously through the buzz, segmented by occasional sips from his bottle and the number of times that Jon pushes his glasses back up his nose. Martin keeps tabs of the little things, like the loose threads of Jon’s jumper and the ink stains on the tips of his fingers. He reminds his sober self to get Jon a working office computer, but the note in his phone might not be much more than drunken gibberish. The tenth time Jon adjusts his glasses, he also pushes away from his desk and stretches. This time Martin’s eyes drop to the strip of his exposed belly, guilt mostly masked by the alcohol.

“Are you done already?” He thinks his words are steady enough, but by the way Jon snorts at him he might be more of a mess than he realizes.

“It’s been more than an hour, Martin.” Jon says his name in that vaguely admonishing tone and the flush on Martin’s cheeks suddenly isn’t just because of the booze. Jon stands from his desk and somehow manages to look elegant while crossing his messy office. He squats down in front of the cot and Martin stares at the pockmark scars on his face. Jon extracts the bottle from his grip, ignoring his insistent whining for more. Martin finds it distinctly magical that he produces the cap from nowhere and twists it back on. “I should have taken this away,” he glances into Martin’s face and he grins back at him, “a while ago.” He finishes, fingers sliding into Martin’s hair as he shoves the bottle out of his reach.

The disappointment about his stolen booze is properly forgotten when Jon maneuvers himself onto the cot, sitting back against the wall and letting Martin’s head lay in his lap. He’s warm and soft and Martin presses his face against Jon’s belly as those long, ink stained fingers continue to work through his hair. The quiet is nice. The hands in his hair are nice, and soon Martin is floating, buzz receding in favor of something even sweeter. He breathes in the smell of parchment and laundry detergent, tangled thoughts gone as Jon expertly works the tension out of him.

Jon seems to know the exact moment when the floating quiet becomes too much. He starts talking then. He narrates his day to Martin in the same slow, careful tone he uses to read statements. It makes Martin shiver and cling to him, mind guided through the mundane scenes that Jon lays out in front of him, at once calming and protective. Martin might truly be addicted to the sound of Jon’s voice, it’s cadence and the way his rough, honeyed tone scrapes over all his nerves and makes Martin want to give him absolutely everything. 

Jon fills him. His voice in his ears and the smell of his skin in his nose, every nerve tingling and focused on his hands moving through his hair. Jon flushes him out, worming into his cracks and filling the hollow spots he’s never been able to satiate. His toes curl as Jon’s fingers scratch behind his ear and all at once the dizzying arousal snaps into focus. Jon fills him, senses in overdrive and mind all encompassed by him--enough to ignore his burgeoning hard-on.

He knows Jon can see the pink tips of his ears, it wouldn’t surprise him if he could feel his pulse as he makes an embarrassed sound and rolls away from him. There isn’t far to go on the tiny cot. He ends up on his back, resolutely not looking at Jon as he mumbles out something close to an apology. Jon’s hands aren’t moving in his hair and he desperately tries to keep his face from displaying all his warring emotions.

It takes a moment, but Jon’s fingers move again, curling through his hair. His other hand lands on Martin’s chest, palm pressed over the shivering beat of his heart. Martin sucks in a deep breath, as if that’ll slow his thundering pulse. His nails scratch at Martin through his shirt and Martin feels like Elias, hearing the mechanical click of Jon’s voice before he speaks. “Are you… thinking of me?”

Martin’s shocked by the question, shocked enough to mumble, “When am I not?” He’s fairly sure the whiskey has more to do with that admission than any of Jon’s power.

Jon traces a pattern over Martin’s heart, and he closes his eyes as he tries to make out the lines pressed into his skin. “I don’t mind, you know.” Martin, in fact, doesn’t know. They’ve never talked about it, not between survival, rushed kisses and shared repose. It never seemed important enough, not until Martin gets embarrassingly hard at little to no provocation. His cheeks pound with fresh heat and he licks his lips. “You can… take care of it.” Martin doesn’t think he’s ever heard Jon speak so slow, as if he’s afraid of his own words.

Martin huffs a little laugh, somehow the tension leaves his shoulders as he swallows. “Don’t think I’d be able to make it to the bathroom, Jonny.”

Jon makes an annoyed little noise. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind. If you--here.” Martin’s heart stops. He chokes on an embarrassed half laugh, and hates the way his cock jerks at the proposition. 

It takes a while for his mind to catch up, thoughts caught somewhere in untangling whether or not Jon is just humoring him. “Are you… sure?” He finally settles on saying, even though it's not even close to all of his jumbled thoughts. Jon continues to pet at his hair and rub little circles into his chest, painfully patient as Martin’s lips form silent sentences. “I mean,” he laughs awkwardly, “What would you even get out of it?” Regret hits him the moment he says it, and he’s  _ still _ achingly hard when he smacks a hand across his eyes. “Jon, I’m too drunk for this--”

He expects a tongue lashing and gets Jon laughing instead, the sound so foreign and sweet Martin drags his hand away from his eyes. He gets to see Jon then, lips parted around a smile as he tosses his head back, shaggy hair tickling his shoulders as he looks so utterly exasperated. “It’s your fault for getting hard, Martin.” His voice has that teasing edge that makes Martin yearn for him so desperately, and he’s barely aware of what he’s doing before he’s kissing Jon’s smile.

He makes a surprised noise into Martin’s mouth and he swallows it eagerly as his fingers fall down his cheek. He traces the puckered scars there, a reverent whisper to their past before the dizziness overtakes him and he slumps back down into Jon’s lap. He licks over his tingling lips as Jon stares down at him, eyes sparkling and endless as he says, “I like being close to you.” The hand on Martin’s chest drags lower and slips under his shirt, cool fingers dancing over his soft belly. “And I’d like to see you feel good.” The words are barely audible but Martin registers them like a punch to the face.

He sucks in a breath and covers his eyes again, suddenly overwhelmed with the way Jon is _ still _ looking at him. Martin clears his throat and drops a clumsy hand to the button of his jeans. “Yeah, okay… okay,” he repeats it to himself as he opens his pants and pulls out his cock, some sort of reassurance as Jon’s hand flattens over his navel. 

His nerves fall away when he gets a hand around his cock. He shudders out a rough breath, taking comfort in the darkness surrounding him as he rubs his thumb over the slick tip. His entire body shudders then, muscles drawing taut and nerves tingling as he starts to stroke his cock.

His movements get slicker with every stroke, cock spilling eagerly across his fingers as he sporadically remembers to breathe. Jon is a quiet, steady presence beside him all the while. If Martin focuses on him for too long, he begins to feel the stroking movements of his gaze and pleasure curls through him so acutely he can’t think. He rubs at the underside of the head, a little noise wiggling from between his teeth before he gives himself a few fast strokes.

And then Jon’s hands start to move. Martin’s pace falters, blood humming in his veins as Jon’s soft fingers stroke across his belly and curl through his hair again. He squeezes his cock tighter, eyes slamming shut as if that would help stave off the onslaught. If anything, the darkness makes it more intense, body so perfectly attuned to everything Jon gives him. And then Jon starts to speak. “You look… gorgeous,” he says, slowly. Martin can’t help but whimper, hips kicking up into his fist. “I didn’t think that…'' Jon clears his throat when his voice goes tight. “I didn’t think I’d like it this much.” Martin’s panting now, and he’s fairly sure he’s never been this turned on in his life.

He licks his lips and digs his thumb into the head of his cock. His belly twitches under Jon’s palm, orgasm drawing taut inside him. He opens his mouth to warn Jon, but when his fingers catch on a knot in Martin’s hair, all he can do is gasp. Jon makes one of his assessing little noises, and Martin’s thoughts are scrambled as he fucks into his slick fist. Jon twists his fingers in Martin’s hair again, and then tugs with fresh purpose. Martin cries out, back arching as his legs spread wider. “Do you like that?” His voice is silky and it flays Martin to the core, letting his gaze search out any information he might want.

“O-oh, god--Jon.” He can’t answer, can’t even think past moving his hand on his cock, but Jon knows. He always does. He gathers more of Martin’s hair and pulls harder, making his scalp burn. “Fucking, s-shit, I’m gonna--” He spreads his legs wide, heels digging into the cot as he arches into his own touch. He strokes himself sloppily, tears gathering in his lashes as he cums all over his fist and makes a mess of his shirt. He rides it to the edge of pain, until his entire body is trembling and colorful spots gather behind his eyelids. He keeps them closed even after the nebulous shapes disappear and his breathing returns to normal.

“Well, then,” Jon says after a moment, combing out any tangles in Martin’s hair.

Martin giggles and finally lets go of his cock, keeping his dirty hand far away from either of them. “Great pillow talk, Jon.” He gets flicked on the forehead for his tease, but when he scrubs the dampness from his eyes and peers up at him, he sees only fondness in Jon’s stare.

“I liked that,” Jon finally says. Martin can’t stop looking at his pinkened cheeks.

“Yeah?” He murmurs. Jon nods. Martin leans up for a kiss smiling into Jon’s mouth like an idiot. “Guess we’ll have to do it again then.” 

Jon snorts. “Yeah the next time you get hard because of my voice.”

Martin punches him in the shoulder and rolls off the cot. “That’s definitely an abuse of power, Jon.” He struggles to keep a stern face as he tucks himself back into his pants and looks for something to wipe his hand with. 

Jon ignores the jab and stands from the cot. “Come home with me,” he says with that same, silky, addicting voice.

Martin blushes like a schoolgirl and nods. “Of course.” He doesn’t really know what this is--and he has a feeling Jon doesn’t either--but, he’ll savor it for as long as they have it. 

**Author's Note:**

> if u like mag come hang out with me on twit @sinningpumpkin i need mag moots so bad


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